


The Sky Was Gray

by 13letters



Series: fare thee well, oh, honey [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R.R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels and Tragedy, Character Study, Content Ending, Death, IM N OOT CRYI NH YOUR ARE, Season/Series 06 Spoilers, in memory of, silver linings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 04:42:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7252510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13letters/pseuds/13letters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ramsay Snow says to run. Relief tastes like ash and blood in his mouth, and he doubts. He fears. </p><p>Rickon runs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sky Was Gray

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FrozenSnares](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrozenSnares/gifts).



Joy tries to trickle in his stomach with relief, with hope, with _almost_ , but it quails against all the other griefs he hasn't been able to forget away with begged-for miracles and wishing. Ramsay Snow says to run. Relief tastes like ash and blood in his mouth, and he doubts. He fears. 

Rickon runs.

Jon might as well be a league away across this graveyard of a field, eyes as gray as the skies, as his father's if he remembers right, but he's in the crypts of Winterfell. 

 

Jon can't stop laughing with flour on his face, a white sheet hanging around him like he's a ghost, like he's death himself, and far away Arya coddles him into her arms, smooths his unruly red hair away from his face, dries his tears. 

"You stupid," she chides Jon, Robb, Theon, "you're scaring the baby."

 

In his father's study, he sits tracing letters with his fingers. There's a fire cracking from the pit but he's shivering, he's so cold, the summer winds howl outside like it's winter, like arrows are whirling past his head. 

"And what about you, son," Eddard asks him not unkindly. His eyes lighten with the smile lines that sometimes seem so grave, but there's nothing but affection in his heart for his children. "Robb will inherit Winterfell. Bran aspires to be a great knight. What do you wish to be when you're a great man someday?"

It's an honest enough question. Sansa just wants to be a lady, Arya wants to join the Kingsguard except when she has to be in her lady's lessons, then she'd rather be no one at all, but they've all got their lives ahead of them. 

"Father," he says. And then he can't breathe, the world is moving under his feet too fast, he's too short in this chair for his heels to touch the floor. He speaks so urgently, strained from running. "Papa, I think I'm going to die."

"Nonsense, Rickon," his father smiles, turning back to some parchment on his desk. Light streams in from the window. "You won't for a long, long time, you've yet to grow stronger and taller than me, little wolf."

" _Papa_ ," he chokes. He stands, and his toes are warm on the fur rug. "He's shooting arrows at me."

"He who passes the sentence," Eddard starts calmly. 

He's so close, he's too far away. "I can't run fast enough."

"Finish the alphabet," his father tells him. "We won't want your mother to think all you're doing in here is eating lemon cakes." 

Rickon wraps his arms around himself. It's so cold.

"It's strange," Ned muses suddenly. He isn't looking at Rickon; he doesn't have a head at all. "I've told Jon that he who passes the sentence swings the sword. I should have told him he ought to be wary of three heads."

"Three?" he asks.

"I'll tell Bran," Eddard continues, musing. "He won't be thinking of what is right, he'll be wondering if that deserter is right in what he saw."

"Father," he pleads. The wind outside booms like thunder, like a galloping horse. 

"I fear he is. If the battle comes, Rickon, make sure it's the fight that matters."

 

Robb is smiling at him. Light halos around his shoulders, falls around him through the leaves and branches of the godswood trees. They grew up here. 

"You're always getting hurt," Robb tells him. He's still smiling, though, like this is why he's here, patching up his baby brother's scraped knee 'cause Bran climbs the buildings, Rickon climbs the trees and jumps out at his father and brothers when they're praying. "Did you scrape your hands, too?"

"No," he answers. He holds up his hands, cold and grimy with dirt under his nails, shadowed in the light surrounding them. "I'm running," he says, "Robb."

"You were," he laughs cheerfully. His tunic is clean, white. "That's when you fell."

"You're going to leave," Rickon accuses suddenly, remembering because Robb is clean-shaven without a scruff of a beard yet. He's as old as Rickon is now. "Your hair looks different than I remembered. I thought it'd be curly like mine."

"I'll let it grow out," Robb remedies, ever the compromiser, ever the diplomat even then. Why do they let boys play at war? 

"You're going to leave," he repeats.

It comes out like he's pouting, so Robb just grins, tousles his hair. "Then I'll write to you," he says. "I'll come back."

"No," Rickon gasps. His knee is scraped, an arrow lands inches away from his foot. "You won't. You're not even here, are you?" But instead of an accusation, it's desperate, Robb can't stop smiling, it's like he's saying _soon_ , he's asking him why he's always hurt.

"Of course I'm not here, Rick. Can't you tell where you are? You're on that battlefield alone except for Jon, don't you know? You can close your eyes, you can wake up," he says, "it'll be alright no matter what you do."

"I'm so scared," he sobs. The snow his feet kick up drips onto the dry leaves of the godswood and disappears.

"Rickon," Robb sighs. The blood gushing from Rickon's stomach stains his clean white shirt. "Why are you always getting hurt?"

 

He gasps, startles, stares up at the sky like salt is making his throat dry, cutting off all his air. He clutches at his stomach and so heavy, snow is weighing him down, rocks are collapsing his lungs, it hurts so bad. He tastes iron. 

He inhales, and this hole the arrow has torn into his stomach, it's tearing him apart. The sky turns white.

 

He inhales again and it's softer, instead of blood on his hands, it's sweat, but he's shivering. Everything's lighter. Snow and hard earth under him turn into soft pillows and Summer's soft fur under his head. 

Bran lays asleep, maybe to never wake, maybe to never walk. He knows what happens next, just not what happens after.

Catelyn sits by the bedside, she's weaving her wreath for her son, she's praying. 

"Mama," he says.

Summer lifts her head, but Catelyn doesn't seem to hear him. 

"Mother."

She mumbles to herself. She looks younger than he's ever seen her, but he doesn't really remember the lines of her face. He doesn't remember her singing lullabies to him while he slept. 

He fights to keep his eyes open, he feels like the pain is swallowing him whole, whiting everything out.

"I wanted all my children home together," she finally says, looking straight at him.

Inexplicably, he wants to cry.

"Not like this, Rickon." White light shines around her. Her eyes are as blue as his, as the sky ontop of this room, endless and stretching on and on, he could just. He could just go. He always wanted to fly. "Not like this, sweetling, you're too young, I don't want all my children here for such a long time, stand up, Rickon! Get up! Robb!"

Her voice changes, her face twists and changes and twists. "Robb, get up! Walk out of here! Robb!"

 

Rickon gets up. 

The air is humid here, his tunic is sticking to his skin with blood. The sun is so high overhead, here in this cramped room, this country he's never seen.

"Arya," he says. He can't say why he's expecting her eyes to be white when she opens them. "It's so cold."

"All I've done here is sweat," she sulks, and she is -- she's sweating buckets, she's gritting her teeth. Across from him, she holds her hands to her bandaged stomach, and what about him, he needs -- "They said Theon killed you and Bran," she tells him.

Strangely, he wants to laugh, his heels are digging into the earth, he grips the edge of this table so tight. "It'll be a different bastard, Arya."

"I'll kill him," she swears. Her eyes start to look glassy. 

He wonders if she's drank milk of the poppy, if this is her hallucination instead of his. "I think Jon might kill him before you get to it."

"Jon," she remembers, gasping. Whatever she has to live for, because it wasn't enough for him. "Rickon, how's he look?"

He's laying in that field all at once. He's dying. He squints his eyes closed to Arya's face because it isn't her face at all, he closes his eyes to Jon's face because he can't bear it. Somehow, it lessens the pain. 

They're back in Winterfell and they're just children. "He looks sad," he whispers, breathless. "He looks sorry. I couldn't run fast enough, Arya. I'm going to d--"

"Sometimes," she confides conspirationally, interrupting him, "I dream of running away from Winterfell." She's nine years old and the hem of her dress is muddy. 

The pain is so bad he feels like he's being cut in half. Somewhere in this castle, he's just a little boy, he's clutching Robb's leg and crying, there's no sound at all now, he can't hear the wind, he can't hear the sighs of Jon's horse. 

"What if we did it, hm? We'll run away North and live like the wildlings do? I won't like how the Braavosi live when I get there."

"Arya." The corners of his eyes, they're whiting out. Blood is staining through her bandages, she's crying on the floor, he realizes at once it's too late for him, "Arya," he begs, he's gasping in the great big sky, "Arya, not like this, Mum doesn't want her children back like this."

 

Sansa's brushing through his hair. 

His head is so light in her hands. His hair's all matted at the base of his skull, her hands are so gentle, though, they've done this before, "You're not really here," he guesses. In his stomach, there's no pain at all. 

"You could fly away," she tells him, her voice so light. 

He tips his head back and his heart slows. He doesn't recognize the lines around her eyes, the gray starting to thread her hair with age and wisdom. Her eyes are just as blue, still, as blue as the sky overhead, and she's older than even their mama was. 

"Where are we?" he asks.

All she does is hum, brush through his cold, wet hair. "We're not here at all, Rickon. But you could stay here."

"I don't have a choice," he starts to say, but with vitriol, she sucks her teeth. 

"I didn't have a choice. You can stay here and fly away, Rick, you'll feel better if you do. No one would blame you for it. You could kiss Mother's cheeks when you arrive --" _Where?_ he interrupts, but she starts to shake his shoulders. She starts to cry against her horse a battlefield away. 

"You could just get up, Rickon," she says, her voice so clear. A raven quarks overhead. "Get up, Rickon, wake up. Jon," but she whispers across to the field like he can hear her this league away, "please," she chokes, "wake him up, Jon, why isn't he moving."

 

He breathes in, and he breathes out. His body feels like it's on fire. 

He can't raise his eyes to Jon, no, he opens them and just a glimpse, there's Osha sitting by his head, she's brushing his sweaty hair from his eyes.

"You were so brave, little lordling," she whispers. It sounds like the farewell they never got to say. 

If he could move, if he could speak, he'd howl. It feels like Shaggy is ghosting his snout just barely down the left side of his face. His blood's gone cold, but it's leaving him. He's been running for hours. 

"Mama," he calls her, strangled, garbled,

"M'boy," she chokes.

She draws him into her lap, she cradles him so gently. The wet earth is seeping through his tunic, his spine feels like ice against the ground. 

"It'll all be over soon," she gushes soothingly. Where she touches the hole in his stomach, he stops feeling the hurt in his back, too. "I'll help you find your family, Rickon. You won't face death alone with us here."

 

"I don't know you," he realizes. He's taller than he ever was, he's standing here with Shaggydog, he doesn't feel his shirt wet with his blood. "Why do you matter?"

"I suppose I could have," the girl snaps. Not a girl, a woman, peevishly looking up from her book about Aegon the Conqueror with a wooden carved doe in her hands. "I want to tell you that death isn't so bad."

"Jon said that when he died, he saw nothing at all." His heart thuds so quick. He isn't sure how he knows that about his brother, maybe a cousin -- he just does. "Is that what killed you?" Brazenly, he eyes the marks on the left side of her face. 

She's bathed in light. She's smiling at him. "No," she says. "But that doesn't matter. We didn't have a choice, but see? It isn't over up here." Pale and smooth, she reaches her hand out for him, palm up and like an olive branch, like eternity. 

His hand is warm when it meets hers. There isn't any blood. "I don't think I can wake up," he admits to her strangely, just a glimpse of what lays beyond.

"You don't have to," she assures him, "you're safe now, you can fly."

"I think Jon might die."

"We don't lose those we've lost," she implores him, soft as the snow under his head, and there, _there_ , he can see Robb. 

The third pair of arms that ever held him. 

 

"You can't wake up," accuses Bran, his eyes white, "or you won't?"

"I don't -- I don't know," he whines, his throat feels like ice again. He can't move. "Will you come with me? You should have let me go with you."

"Not yet," Bran says, but he smiles as he walks to him, the same height Jon was before he left. "But soon. You won't be alone, little brother. Tell them that I miss them. Tell them that I love them!"

He's so far away, he's up in the sky miles ahead, he's flying and soaring and he's cutting into the sky like arrows, he's letting go. 

Rickon closes his eyes.

 

"I did all I could," a voice says. There's a shock and there's a silence, and he knows that voice.

"Hodor," he whispers. He opens his eyes to see a boy staring back at him, eyes wide and familiar and unafraid.

 

"You stupid," Arya snarls, wiping his nose with her fancy dress sleeve. "You're scaring the baby."

 

The wind outside booms outside his father's study like thunder, like galloping horses. Jon speaks, but it's Father who starts to talk.

"Papa," he interrupts. A calm starts to settle him, replacing the anguish, the fear, the hope. His blood is so cold against his hands. "Papa, I think I'm going to die."

 

"I missed you," whispers Robb, clasping him on the back, squeezing him so tight.

 

A strangled sob, and Catelyn is kissing Osha's cheeks, she's thanking her for taking care of her baby. 

 

Those two farmboys, they stand silent and smiling with a man of the Night's Watch. He who passes the sentence.

 

"It doesn't hurt anymore," he realizes with a gasp. He touches his stomach, but there's just healed skin, there's just his shining flesh and these faces smiling back at him.

 

For just an instant, he sees Jon choking, panting and gasping for breath, for his life, and next to Father, a woman that's an older Arya tells him to get up, to _wake up! Not like this,_ and next to her, a white-haired man starts to weep. 

 

Shaggy nuzzles into his side. He opens his arms and there's his mother, there's his father, there's all the people he thought he lost. They're standing in Winterfell, but the sun is shining. The blue sky is like a thousand pieces jarred by the branches of the godswood, split and creviced by the leaves. 

He can't taste any blood. 

"You have a choice," Sansa says. 

"I made it," he answers, "I don't feel the cold," and ear-piercing, magnificent, Lady starts to bark with glee. 

 

Shaggydog licks his face, his mother cries into his clean white shirt.

"I don't see Arya," he realizes, looking around the wonder here, but of their own volition, a fire crackling, Eddard shakes his head.

"She's coming home."

 

A woman with curly red hair, she says Jon used to talk about him. 

 

In heartache that's sweet reunion, the world feels full and splintered to wonderful pieces. He stumbles on a stair, but he's still holding onto the girl's hand, and he's steady, and he's floating, he's so light. 

 

The gray skies have brightened to blue. The thunderous pounding of horses' hooves have softened to birds singing, and instead of iron, he tastes lemon cakes. This is where he grew up. This isn't an end.

Joy trickles in his stomach with relief, with hope. 

His eyes close on that field just to open here.


End file.
